


Dark Desires

by barefootwithneonhands



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Humor, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2021-01-22 15:04:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21304058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barefootwithneonhands/pseuds/barefootwithneonhands
Summary: Aziraphale, formerly Principality of the Eastern Gates and currently Proprietor of A.Z. Fell & Co., engages in a battle of wills with his new neighbor the dark demon Crowley, formerly the Serpent in the Garden of Eden and currently Proprietor of Dark Desires café and pâtisserie.
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley & Anathema Device, Crowley & Newton Pulsifer
Comments: 3
Kudos: 19





	Dark Desires

Aziraphale, formerly Principality of the Eastern Gate, Eden, and currently proprietor of A.Z. Fell & Co, Antiquarian and Unusual Books, Soho, became aware of the café in much the same way he became aware of the invention of the horseless carriage—through a horrifying, unmitigated disaster that rocked him to the core of his very celestial being and for one dark moment made him long for the return of his misplaced flaming sword.

There were crumbs, CRUMBS, he was certain of it, on the 1823 edition _of Mrs. Beeton’s Book of Household Management_. Mrs. Beeton, a lovely and terrifying woman who would have found even the gleaming martial ranks of the celestial chorus untidy and worthy of scorn, would never have stood for it. And neither would Aziraphale.

“Ahem,” he ahemed righteously.

The miscreant holding, good Lord and saints preserve him, a chocolate chip muffin, continued to graze mindlessly, leaning over a pristine copy of The Fairy Queen and spreading his crumbly bounty over yet another century of treasures.

“AHEM,” he said again, this time putting the fear of sinners before an angry God1 into it.

The miscreant jerked upright, inhaled his mouthful of muffin, and began expelling it in large, partially chewed chunks over a stack of vintage primers.

“Sweet merciful Heavens,” shrieked Aziraphale, pulling a handkerchief out of thin air2 and began flapping it ineffectually in the direction of The Muffin Man, Desecrater of Books and Shortly to be Banned For Life from the Premises.

The man doubled over, wheezing, and then titled forward to crash into a delicately balanced stand of books Aziraphale hadn’t quite gotten around to categorizing in the last forty years. He gasped a few times and then went limp, his body enduring the last few quiet indignities of death as the dust of ages flew into the air.

Aziraphale covered his nose, forcefully reminded of the malodorous horrors of the Great Terror. The crepes had been lovely, but the guillotine far less so. “Oh dear.” He sighed and rolled his eyes piously toward the great dome that, for all that he was trapped in central London, presented a view of an incongruously unobstructed blue sky tenanted by fluffy white clouds. “I truly didn’t mean to end the man’s life, you know. That was an accident. And I know, I know that I’m not supposed to create miracles for selfish gain. But it’s all just so rather inconvenient.” He nudged the fresh corpse with his toe. “You do understand, of course.”

He darted a glance around, checking for prying eyes. The shop was in its customary state of complete desolation, and the few passersby he could glimpse through the artfully smudged windows appeared to be hurrying about on their own business. Still, one couldn’t be too careful in Soho these days.

Stepping lightly around the corpse3 he scuttled to the door and threw the lock, flipping around the “Closed” sign and drawing the shade. Then he turned to face his poor, dear, mangled, muffin-menaced bookshop and sighed. “Oh, this just won’t do,” he muttered.

Aziraphale clapped his hands together, and for a moment his small corner of the universe sat up and took notice. “Abra,” he said, “cadabra”.

Time began to unspool, bodily fluids crawling back where they belonged, muffin crumbs hurtling back into the misfortunate miscreant’s mouth, books sweeping themselves up off the floor and back into their carefully assigned places. The man himself toppled up off the disarray, as Aziraphale hummed a pretty little snatch of Mozart under his breath, the man beginning to orbit Aziraphale and his shop in reverse, tracing a retrograde path through the little sanctuary4 whirling jerkily around Aziraphale as the truly massive muffin in his hand rebuilt itself bite by bite until he and the offending pastry reached the door.

Aziraphale snapped his fingers.

The man blinked.

“Oh hello,” Aziraphale called out. “Good morning!” His words sped along with the power of a freight train, and the man blinked rapidly as the ancient, lizard part of his brain repeatedly kicked the rest of his muffin-logged grey matter that it was bloody well time to pay attention. “Oh no, I’m afraid this shop has a strict ‘No food or beverage’ policy.” The man looked down at the bag in his hand. Aziraphale smiled, a smile full of swords and pillars of salt. “So sorry.” Aziraphale snatched the bag out of the man’s hand. The miscreant blinked again, staring down at his now empty hand. “Good day to you, sir,” said Aziraphale, shoving the man out of the shop and back onto the street.

“Um,” he heard from beyond the firmly closed door. “Um. Whozzit?”

Aziraphale flipped the Closed sign with a vengeance and yanked the shade down before sagging against the door. His gaze flitted around the shop, as tidy and crumb-free as it had been before the monster and his pastry bag had sacked it. “All safe and sound then.” He stared down at the offending bag in his hand.

To call it a paper bag would be too simple. Although his fingertips reliably informed him that it was indeed, paper, his eyes insisted that it was luxury. Decadence. The color of deep, rich cherry wood lovingly polished for a century. Gold script whispered across the front, ensnaring the senses, instilling a yearning to know more about the forbidden contents within. “Dark Desires,” he read slowly, drawing the bag up to his nose and taking a whiff of the muffin of chaos within. It smelled… golden. And rich. And made even the well-groomed hairs of his eyebrows sit up and beg.

This was a dangerous muffin. A possibly demonic muffin. As the duly charged representative of the Heavenly Host in this part of the world, it was his duty to investigate.

And he was fairly sure this investigation would pair delightfully with a cup of cocoa.

* * *

1\. And causing a small earthquake felt all the way to Edinburgh. Back

2\. It had actually been in his pocket, but Aziraphale fancied himself a master of the sleight of hand. Back

3\. Those gavotte lessons in the 1840s had absolutely paid off, and he was sure the dance would spring back into fashion any moment now. Back

4\. In actuality, the shop of one Mr. A. Fell, Bookseller, was the largest privately owned shopping space in this particular section of London, presenting the Great White Whale of property acquisitions for a certain type of businessperson. This particular type often tried acquiring the shop precisely once before becoming obsessed with the idea of taking a long and extended tropical holiday, never to be seen in a corporate office again. Back

**Author's Note:**

> 1) Unbeated. All mistakes and typos are my own.  
2) This story is incomplete. I do have half of chapters 2 & 3 written, but I needed to just get something posted. More chapters as I'm able!


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